


Tonight We May Lose The Battle

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossdressing, Harry Potter Next Generation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-19
Updated: 2011-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-21 13:51:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why?" I ask after a moment. "Why didn't you come back?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tonight We May Lose The Battle

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to noeon for the super-fast beta and to the mods for their utmost patience. Written for ayane_tsurugi for the 2010 hp_nextgen_fest. Warnings for boys in vintage couture, girls in metallic halters, chorus in the dressing room.

> Every night we have the battle with the girls to keep them from taking off all their clothing. So don't go away. Who knows? Tonight we may lose the battle!
> 
> -"Willkommen," _Cabaret_

The spotlight shines down on me, hot and bright, preventing me from seeing all but the first few rows of tables in front of the makeshift stage. A trickle of sweat rolls down the back of my neck as I sing, belting out "Cabaret" to put Liza herself to shame. A shimmy of my hips sends the beaded fringe of my silk dress fluttering. The light catches the jet beads and they sparkle blackly against my pale thighs.

I blink away a drop of salty wetness from the corner of my eye. I'm at home here on the stage. I knew that the first time I stood on the table in the Great Hall in the middle of dinner, my House laughing and clapping beneath me as I sang--on a dare--the latest Phoenixfire single at the top of the WWN charts. Old McGonagall hadn't been best pleased, but it hadn't mattered. I'd been fourteen and certain I owned the world.

Three months later my parents died.

Officially, it was an accident. Mother and Father'd been in Estonia for a potionbrewer's conference. The report said they'd been hit by a Muggle car crossing the street. Rubbish. Everyone knew it was the Dolohovs--between their anger over Father's potion innovations which they'd been unable to properly reproduce (not to mention his slagging them off in the professional journals--Malfoys have never been known for their discretion) and bad blood left from the war, the bloody MLE had a file as thick as my arm on their threats to Father. The Dolohovs' criminal ties stretched back centuries, back to Ivan the Terrible and his Oprichniki. To this day their family crest carries the dog's head and broom of the tsar's infamous death squad.

In the months before they were killed, Mother had begged Father not to go to Tallinn. It was too close to the Dolohov base in St Petersburg, she'd said, and the MLE had agreed. The Head Auror'd even come to see Father personally, telling him not to be a damn fool, but Father refused to listen to anything Harry Potter said, even after all these years. He'd insisted he wouldn't be cowed by the bastards' intimidation.

I still haven’t forgiven him for leaving me an orphan.

The music dies, and I'm left silent on the stage, head bowed, breathing hard. There's wild clapping--there always is for me--over the hum of this tiny club on a side street in Chelsea, and even a few shouts. I've been singing here for three years now, and the regulars know me by name.

It's an odd place, Leviathan is, with a strangely eclectic mix of wizards, Squibs, and in-the-know Muggles. I've lived in New York since I was eighteen and could escape my grandfather’s house, and it still catches me by surprise, this curious egalitarianism of theirs that feels so hypocritical at times. The club's filled with the beautiful and the rich and the interesting and the famous--all others wait outside behind the rope, hoping (most likely in vain) for a chance to enter the curved purple doors, an enormous sea serpent carved into their heavy wood.

I scoop up the dollars thrown across the jut of the stage and head for the steps, my heels clicking sharply against the rubber-coated plywood. Idgie hands me a bottle of water. Her dark curls tumble wildly over her pale face, stopping at the sharp jut of her jaw. She looks remarkably like her mother—my godmother--a fact which annoys her in the extreme. We've been friends since we first met when I was four and my family crossed the pond for her Naming ceremonies. At her Simchat Bat in the synagogue, she squalled while her father was called up to the Torah and she was given the name Elisheva bat Eitan. Two days later, she was christened Iphigenia Elizabeth Parkinson-Goldstein in the St Columba chapel of St John the Divine, and my father stood as her godfather. According to family legend, when I was allowed to sit on the sofa and hold her for the first time, I cheerfully announced to the whole--highly amused--room that I would marry her one day.

Twenty-two years later, I’ve yet to fulfill that vow--not from any failing of Idgie’s, mind. She’s a brilliant girl but as flamingly queer as I am. Uncle Tony's still not entirely thrilled when his daughter brings home a new girlfriend. Aunt Pansy, on the other hand, takes it remarkably in stride. Then again, she's two other entirely heterosexual daughters to terrorise into advantageous marriages, and I suspect Idgie's defiance of propriety has always reminded Aunt Pansy of herself in a way.

"Brilliant as always," Idgie says, slouching louchely against the wall. Her skin's pale against the black paint, and the skimpy chain mail halter she's wearing shifts, flashing the side of her breast. Her father would have a fit if he could see her. She's been wearing clothes guaranteed to displease Daddy since she came down from New Haven after her graduation in May.

"Thanks, love," I say, and lift the bottle to my mouth. The cool water splashes over my lips, and rivulets run down my chin. I don't care. I'm hot and adrenaline races through me. I drag the back of my hand across my chin, wiping the water away.

The thin strap of my dress slides from my shoulder. I hitch it up with a sigh. It'd be an easier dress to wear if I had tits to fill it out, but I don't do drag, unlike some of the other performers at the club. Not that I've anything against it, mind. But I've no desire to be seen as a woman; I just happen to like dresses and heels--vintage couture nearly always--and they tend to suit my tall, thin frame. I've the Malfoy androgyny, after all, with my pointed face, wispy, chin-length bob, and wide, grey eyes, and there's something liberating about queering myself so that the straight and bent alike find it uncomfortable and difficult to place.

I hand Idgie the bottle, and she grabs my wrist, pulling me closer to her. "You need to go," she says quietly, in her oddly clipped accent that combines Brit and Yank, and I raise an eyebrow at her. She drags me further into the shadows and her fingers tighten on my wrist. "Trust me on this one, Scorpius."

My brow furrows. "What _are_ you on about?" It takes something for Idgie to lose her oh-so-cultivated cool.

"Hey," a deep voice says behind me, and I flinch in recognition. Idgie closes her eyes and sighs.

I turn slowly, afraid to face the devil at my back. I haven't seen him for four years. Not since he went back to Britain after his internship at the Wall Street Gringotts had ended. He's wearing Muggle bespoke now, and the dark suit is tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders and narrow hips. "You've finally learned to tie a Windsor," I say, like a fool.

Al smiles at me, a flash of sharp, white teeth. "I had a good tutor."

That's enough to call to mind memories of me kneeling in his bed, starkers, tying his tie for him every morning before he Floo'd to the office. Al'd been hopeless then, utterly incapable of picking out a proper shirt to wear with his off-the-rack suit. "You did," I murmur.

We can't look away from each other. Idgie swears under her breath next to me, and Al finally glances at her, then does a double-take. "You've grown," he says, raising an eyebrow.

"I've got tits now, you mean." Idgie lifts her chin and gives Al a defiant stare.

It doesn't phase him. "You had them before as I recall," Al says. Idgie was always jealous of him, even as an eighteen-year-old readying herself to leave for uni. She'd wanted all of my attention at the time, and she'd been certain Al would break my heart.

She hadn't been wrong.

Idgie's nostrils flare. She's far too protective of me sometimes, particularly when it comes to the one idiot who's managed to break my cold heart. "Why are you back?"  
It's the question I want to ask. Or hear the answer to. I glance at him dispassionately, trying to keep my curiosity from showing.

Al shrugs. "Gringotts transferred me from London, and I needed to get away from my family."

He'd always been uncomfortable with the attention he'd received as Harry Potter's son, not to mention what was directed towards him as the namesake of both Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape. If I'd been to the wizarding manor born, he'd been been raised as our royalty. The rabid fascination with Our Harry and his doings had extended to his children upon their births. And while there were many who'd point out the benefits Al'd received because of that--the internship with Gringotts for one--I at least understood the pitfalls that come from being born with a famous (or infamous) surname.

"Mother or father?" I ask. I cross my arms over my chest, holding back a shiver. The adrenaline from my performance is wearing off and I’m getting cold. That’s what I tell myself at least.

He'd never told his parents about us. The one week his parents had come to New York, he'd begged me not to wear eyeliner in front of his dad, lest the great Harry Potter intuit I was bent and therefore make the same assumption about his shrinking violet of a queer son. Which had seemed utterly ridiculous to me, since Al _was_ bent and everyone in our year had known it since the first time he given Alexander Nott a blowjob in the potions storeroom in sixth year. "You always have had daddy issues, so I'm assuming the latter?"

Al gives me a sharp look. "All of them, actually. Lily's getting married in October, and I'm already being driven mad by the wedding plans."

"Good Lord." I frown at him. His sister'd been a year behind us at Hogwarts and was an unbearable social butterfly, though Al'd always claimed my dislike of her stemmed from the fact she drew attention away from me. Bollocks that. I just hadn't felt the urge to worship at the shrine of Her Ladyship Gryffindor, thanks ever so. I'm far too much a Ravenclaw for that. "Who'd she finally decide upon?"

Al stuffs his hands in his pockets, ruching up his jacket and entirely ruining the line of his suit. "Lorcan Scamander."

"I would have thought he'd have more sense," I say dryly. I think for a moment. "Isn't that practically taboo, her shagging her godmother's son?"

That earns me a pinch from Idgie. "Don't be vile."

"Oh, it's not like I'd shag you," I snap back at her, pushing my damp hair out of my eyes. "So what do you care?"

She wrinkles her nose at me. "If I wanted to fuck you, you'd let me."

"No prick, darling, or have you forgotten?"

Idgie shrugs one shoulder, nearly exposing an entire breast. "What do you think Polyjuice potion is for, you idiot?" She eyes Al's rumpled hair. "It wouldn't be that hard to manage. You _do_ have a type after all."

I glare at her and Al snorts softly. "The two of you haven't changed, have you?"

"Of course we have." Idgie drinks from my bottle of water. "I've a sheepskin that proves I speak ancient Greek, and Scorpius sings for his supper."

"I'd noticed." Al's gaze drifts to me, sliding down my body, then back up. His green eyes are shadowed. "Buy you a drink?"

Idgie pushes herself off the wall. "I'm parched."

Al catches her arm, still looking at me. "Not you, Iphigenia," he says, and she frowns at the despised name. "Just Scorpius."

Idgie and I exchange a glance. "I don't think that's a good idea," she says, but I lick my bottom lip and hesitate. She's right, of course. I know she is. But still. Al just stands there, Idgie's elbow in his tight grasp, and he's watching me.

I can smell the bergamot and leather of his cologne.

"One drink," I say, "and then you leave." Idgie gives me a distraught look.

"Scorpius," she starts, but I cut her off with a shake of my head. Her mouth thins, and she pulls away from Al. He's left red marks on her arm. "You'll regret this," she says to me.

I'm sure I will.

“As for you.” She turns on Al. “I can hex your cock off, you know,” she says with a dour glare.

He holds up his hands. “It won’t be necessary.”

Idgie sniffs and tosses her hair. It tumbles back into her face. “I might do it just for the laughs.”

Al watches her bony shoulders thoughtfully as she turns on her heel and stalks off. “She was serious, wasn’t she?”

“You’ve met Aunt Pansy,” I say, and Al winces.

“Right.” He looks over at me. “Share that drink then before I lose my genitalia to a Burning Hex?”

I shrug, trying to seem blasé. “Might as well toast to that.”

Al gives me a wide smile that makes my stomach sink. Into my eager groin.

I follow him over to the crowded bar. With a few sharp words, he clears two drunks off their stools. They give us sullen glares as they skulk off. Al ignores them and leans against the bar. "The usual?" he asks, and he doesn't wait for my nod before he catches the barkeep's eye. "One Pimm's cup and a firewhisky sour. Use Odgen's Old, please."

"Perhaps I'd want a gimlet," I say, and I don't bother to mask the trace of petulance. I slide onto one of the stools, hooking my stiletto heel over the rung. The low vee of my dress gapes open, revealing a smooth swathe of pale skin. Al's eyes flick down, and he smiles faintly.

"Order it next," he says.

“One drink, remember?”

His thick eyebrow arches. “We’ll see.”

I rest my elbows on the polished wood of the bar and study him. He's unbuttoned his black wool jacket and it swings open, revealing a charcoal silk lining. His tie is silk and shiny, a thick ribbon of darker red against his perfectly tailored pale pink and white striped shirt. Al's always been the odd Potter out--the only Slytherin, as much a disappointment to his family as I was to mine, and only willing to use his connexions so far. He'd insisted upon standing on his own, and he'd rebelled by reaching back to the traditions I'd run from. He'd made them his own though, mixing wizarding pureblood and Muggle, and as much as I want to hate him for how he's hurt me, I can't help but appreciate the damned bugger.

This doesn't please me.

I touch his watch. It's old and Swiss and--I recognise the maker's mark on the face--incredibly expensive. "You seem to have done well enough."

Al shrugs. "I suppose. The goblins pay decently if you know what you're doing."

"And if you don't?" The barkeep's placed our drinks in front of us. I reach for my Pimm's cup, pulling the cucumber slice from the glass and popping it in my mouth. It's cold and crisp against my tongue.

"Best not to ask that." Al smiles and he stirs his firewhisky sour with one finger. When he licks it slowly, my prick twitches. He looks me up and down again. "Nice dress."

I sip my drink. It's bitter and sweet all at once. "I borrowed it from Idgie. She's a bit appalled that we both fit in her clothes."

Al fingers one of the beads against my thigh. I try not to jerk away. "She's grown up, hasn't she?"

"Or thinks she has," I say. One of the younger boys comes on stage, guitar in hand, amidst whistles and claps. Twinks are all the rage at Leviathan and paid damn well for their troubles, in addition to copious fringe benefits. Jens is particularly popular, and I wonder which one of the appreciative fans he'll take home with him tonight. At twenty-six, I’ve nearly left twinkdom behind and I'm hoping it won’t affect my tips. "How's the rest of your family, then?"

"Well enough." Al takes a sip of his drink. He's always preferred Ogden's, even when we were seventh years, hiding out behind the greenhouses with a bottle nicked from Hogsmeade. He'd kissed me there for the first time, just days before the Leaving Feast, and he'd tasted of firewhisky and the Cauldron Cakes we'd been eating. "Jamie married Gemma Macmillan last year. She was up the duff and her dad didn't want a bastard in the family, even if it was a Potter." He snorts. "Stupid of him since Jamie can't keep his prick in his trousers. He's going to break her heart."

I meet his eyes over the rim of my glass. "Potters seem to be good at that," I say quietly. I set my drink down on the bar with a faint thud and the rattle of ice against the sides.

Al looks away. "I didn't mean to."

"Is that supposed to make it better?" My mouth tightens. "You left, and you promised you'd firecall, you'd owl. You weren't going to let me go, you said, and you'd tell your parents about us." My voice rises, and I break off, breathing hard. My fingers are clenched around the slick sides of my glass. I try to relax them. "Do they even know?" I ask after a long moment. "Have you even told them you moan like a girl when a fat cock's stuffed up your arse?"

"Don't be crass," Al says. He won't look at me. "It's beneath you."

I want to slap him. " _You_ were beneath me once." I laugh, and it's bitter and harsh. "In more than one way."

He just drains his glass, knocking it back. There's the faintest shadow of dark stubble on his jaw, and as much as I want to deck him, I also want to drag my mouth across it. I want him to whimper and spread his legs around me like he once did.

"You're an arse," I say instead and I start to slide off my stool.

Al grabs my wrist. Tight. "Don't." He looks at me then, and his eyes are bright. "I made a mistake."

I hesitate. "Why are you here? How'd you even find me?"

"Pansy," he says, and I have the distinct urge to throttle my wretched godmother. "I've been in town for a week, and I firecalled her yesterday." He gives me a rueful smile. "I'd hoped to find you there."

"I moved out after you left," I say dully. I pull my hand away and rub it sullenly. "I've a flat in Brooklyn."  
It's tiny and it smells of the sausages my landlady below cooks nearly every day and I have to share it with Idgie, who'd refused to move back into her parents' Upper East Side penthouse once she'd come back to the City. Still, it's mine, and I pay for it with the money I earn singing and the slight amount of my inheritance Grandmother has helped me wrest from Lucius's control over the years. Aunt Pansy's still trying to get me to come back across the river. _Darling, it's a wilderness there_ , she says every time we meet at Tea and Sympathy in the Village. _Brooklyn? Really? Your father would be appalled._

The guilt doesn't work. Much.

Al shifts on his stool, moves closer. His knee presses against my bare thigh and I clench my teeth to keep from hissing. "She told me you sang here at night." The fine wool of his trousers is soft against my skin. I can feel the heat of his body through it. "You're good."

"This is a surprise how?" My hand barely trembles as I lift my drink to my mouth. I can still feel his fingers on my skin.

"It's not really." He moves again, reaching to pull the cherry from his empty glass. His leg slides against mine and I want to grab him now, to press him against the bar and kiss him until he's flushed and gasping. "You always did carry a tune well enough in the shower."

I snort. "Better acoustics."

Al sucks the cherry into his mouth, his mouth pursing slightly. I can't tear my eyes from the bob of his throat as he swallows the fruit down. He eyes the stem between his fingers speculatively.

"Don't you dare," I say, already knowing what's coming, but he pops it into his mouth anyway, and his eyes narrow at me. "Albus, you bastard."

I'm helpless and he knows it. He _knows_ what it does to me to watch him twist the stem with his tongue, pressing it against his cheek, to see one end poke out as he pulls the knot tight with his teeth.

He reaches for my hand, turning it over, and drops the damp stem in my palm.

"I despise you," I murmur, but I close my fingers around the cherry stem.

Al leans closer. His breath is warm against my cheek. "No, you don't."

"Arse." If I turn my head our lips will meet. I'm so very tempted. "Why?" I ask after a moment. "Why didn't you come back?" _Why did you just leave me?_

He doesn't answer for a moment, but he doesn't pull away. My whole body aches, I'm so damned aware of him. He breathes out again, slow and soft, and my skin tingles with the warmth. "I was scared, I suppose."

"A Potter who's a coward?" My mouth twists. I still can't look at him. "I'd think that was more a Malfoy trait."

"Don't," Al says, and his hand curls over mine, hot and heavy. His fingers are thick and long, and his square nails have been clipped short. "You've never been a coward."

I look at him then, turning my head just enough. "I know," I say, and I kiss him hard, twisting my hand beneath his to wrap my fingers around his wrist. My mouth is vicious against Al's, and I press my tongue against his teeth, demanding entrance. With a grunt he opens his mouth and I thrust angrily against his tongue, sucking it into my mouth, scraping my teeth along the top.

He grabs the back of my neck when I start to pull back, and he kisses me still, our mouths open to each other, swallowing our gasps and groans.

My fingers twist in the wool of his jacket, pulling him closer. It's been so long and I _hate_ him, I do, but I need this, need his mouth against mine, his body pressed close to me.

When we break away, gasping, I realise my fingers are cramped from clenching his lapel so tightly. I stare at him. His mouth is wet and swollen, and my lips burn.

"Fuck," Al says, and he touches his mouth.

I drag in a slow breath. I want a cigarette. Desperately. I lick my bottom lip and it stings. "Why were you scared?" I ask finally.

He meets my gaze. "You know why."

"No." I shake my head. "I don't actually."

He twists his empty glass in one hand, rolling it across the bar. It catches on the lip and he sets it down with a sigh. "I'm not you, Scorpius. I didn't want to be different. Not back home. It's bad enough how everyone's watched me because of who my parents are. I didn't _ask_ to be Harry Potter's son. I didn't ask to look like him." He runs a hand through his thick black hair, leaving it tousled and bed-ready. "I didn't think I could stand them looking at me because..." He trails off.

I sit up straight. "Because you want to be fucked by a man. One who looks like me." My lip curls. "I'm not ashamed of who I am. I'm not ashamed that sometimes I wear eyeliner and a bit of lipstick. I'm not ashamed that I'll get on that stage in front of God and everyone wearing this kit." I pluck at my dress. "It doesn't make me less a man. It doesn't make me anything other than bloody _me._ And if you can't take that--"

Al stops me with another kiss. His hand cups my cheek, stroking small circles across my skin. I’ve missed this steadying touch. There’ve been other men—plenty of them, I’m attractive enough—but no one’s ever touched me the way Al has.

“Are you just on the pull here?” I ask quietly, as I pull away. “Lonely in a new city, certain an old ex will stuff it up your arse for old times' sake?“

“Don’t be a prick.” Al’s hand falls to his side. “Why do you think I asked to be transferred?”

My breath catches. “You asked.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “I had a choice between New York and Moscow.”

“You don’t like the cold.”

“I’m not all that fond of America, either.” Al looks at me. “But I’m here.”

I can feel my cheeks warm. I glance away, into the press of bodies behind us. For a moment I think I see Idgie with a blonde girl, laughing and leaning in for a kiss. I finish off my drink. “Come on.”

He eyes me. “Are you throwing me out?”

With a roll of my eyes, I slide off my stool and hold my hand out to him.

His fingers are warm against mine. I pull him from the bar, weaving through the throng to a side door. I’m stopped once by a tall Russian who leans across Al to kiss me. I’ve slept with Kolya twice now, and he’s made it perfectly clear he wants more of my cock. Al scowls at us, and I smile at Kolya, brushing my fingers over his arm lightly as we pass.

“Who’s that?” Al snaps at me. I just shrug and push open the door, leading him into relative quiet.

For wizarding space, the tiny corridor that runs behind the stage is tiny. Boxes are piled everywhere; we can barely squeeze through in places. Jonas, the owner, complains all the time about how cramped the damned club is, but there are restrictions in New York on how much magical expansion can take place without proper approval from City Hall, and everyone knows that’s nearly impossible to obtain. The forms themselves take nearly a month to fill out in quadruple. It’s not bloody worth it.

I push open a door plastered with photos of Judy and Gaga in their halcyon days. “Out, you lot,” I say, and the two barely dressed boys spreading lotion on their thighs blink at me.

“Who’s this?” Paul wipes his hands on a rag and eyes Al curiously. He tosses the bottle of lotion to Sam, who caps it and sets it on the counter next to a pile of silk and Fwooper feathers.

Al gives me a sideways frown.

“No one you saw." I snap my fingers at them. “Out, or I’ll tell Jonas I caught you both in here wanking.”

“Like he hasn’t already,” Sam drawls. He slides off the counter and crosses behind Al. One of his hands brushes Al’s shoulder. “Nice suit.”

Al pulls away from him. “Thanks.” He looks at me again, a glint in his eye.

I lean against the dressing counter and study my fingernails. “I could tell him about the cannabis you two keep in the duct.” I flick my eyes to a grate above us. “You know how he is about the Auror vice squad and their surprise visits.”

“Asshole,” Paul says, but he heads for the door, Sam following behind him. “Lube’s in the drawer, and don’t splatter the mirror. It may be a voyeur, but it doesn’t like bukkake.”

The door snicks shut behind them.

Al turns to me. "Bukkake?”

“Did you come here for me?” I counter. “Tell me the truth, and no Slytherin games. I grew up with the bastards. I’ll know.”

He’s silent for a minute. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I missed you.” Al steps closer to me. “I made a mistake.”

My fingers splay across his chest, holding him at arm’s length. “It took you four years to realise that?”

He rests his hand over mine, pressing my palm to his shirt. “It took my little sister falling in love to make me realise that. Yes.”

I don’t say anything. His thumb strokes across mine. I can feel his heartbeat against my hand. It’s fast. For all his exterior calm, Al’s nervous.

I’m glad.

“What Lily and Lorcan have,” Al says, watching me, “we had a bit of that. Here.”

"Had, Al. Had." I can hardly breathe, but my self-protective scorn will be the last to go.

"I haven't felt it with anyone else."

“I’m not marrying you, you tit,” I say.

Al laughs sharply. “I don’t think that was a proposal.”

“What was it then?” I smooth my fingers against his shirt, wriggling my thumb between the buttons. I brush his bare skin and his breath catches.

“Asking for another chance, maybe?” He’s next to me then, and his hand catches my hip. “I've never been able to...” He takes a deep breath and presses his forehead against mine. “I thought, when I left, you’d be out of sight, out of mind. I was wrong.”

I’m slightly mollified. “For someone so intelligent when it comes to sums, you’re a complete fool when it comes to your life. You realise this, yes?”

Al laughs. “Do you remember the screaming row we had where you threw Pansy’s snuff box across the room at me?”

“It wasn’t hers, it was her father’s and she still hasn’t forgiven me that,” I say ruefully. “Although she will agree you were an enormous wanker at the time.”

“I was.” Al pulls me closer. I can feel the hard press of his cock against my hip. “But you weren’t much better.”

My hands settle on his hips. They feel so damn familiar beneath my palms. “I suppose.”

"Scorpius." My name's a soft huff of his breath across my cheek. I lean into him. Al chuckles softly. "You want me as much as I want you."

I press my lips to his throat. "Always stating the obvious, aren't you?"

He turns his head and kisses me, long and slow. I'm breathless when he finally slides his mouth away, nipping lightly along the sharp angle of my jaw. "That's what they pay me for."

"I see." My fingers twist in the wool of his trousers, and I stretch my neck, letting him suck down it. I want him to mark me, as much as I'd hated it before. "I'm never going to be a proper suit-wearing prat, you know. Outside the--" I gasp softly as his teeth graze my skin. "--the occasional wedding, christening and funeral."

Al flicks his tongue across my collarbone. "Malfoy?"

"Mmm?" I rub my thumb over his belt.

"Shut that lovely mouth of yours and fuck me?"

It’s a request I wouldn't refuse if I had the will to.

With a groan, I push his jacket off his shoulders, my mouth smashing against his as we struggle together to get his arms out of the silk lining. A piece of Savile Row artistry falls to the filthy floor, but Al doesn’t seem to give a damn, as occupied as he is with kissing me while he pulls off his silver cufflinks. They strike the counter behind me with a soft, metallic clank. I’m already working at his tie, the silk sliding over my palm as I cast it aside, and then my hands are on his shirt buttons, tugging.

There’s a rip of fabric beneath my fingers. Al’s rutting against me, his cock stiff through his trousers and all I can think of is how much I need to touch him. My fingers slide over his chest, through cotton to the smooth heat of his skin. His chest’s firm and slightly fuzzed, and I can’t stop myself from twisting a nipple, hard.

“Fuck,” he says, pulling back for a quick breath before he leans in again for another rough, eager kiss.

My hand slips further down, over his stomach and across the soft placket of his trousers until I find his prick. I rub it, squeezing lightly. Al groans into my mouth. It’s a sound I’ve missed so damn much. “You’re such a bastard,” I murmur as I pull at his zip.

“But a contrite one?” Al presses his mouth to my temple. I can feel the warmth of his breath and the scratch of his stubble against my cheek. He inhales sharply when I reach into his pants, curling my fingers around his cock.

“We’ll see.” I stroke him lightly. He grabs my hip with one hand, pulling me closer. The wet head of his prick slips through my fingers, nudging my stomach, and I choke back a gasp. I’m hard, ridiculously hard, and it's difficult to hide in this dress.

Al steps back, and my fingers slide off him. He shrugs out of his shirt, letting it fall on top of his jacket. He’s beautiful. Tall and wiry, with golden skin that I’ve always envied. I don’t tan. I’m pasty year around, thanks to my parents’ damn genetics.

His cock juts from his gaping trousers. They hang low on his hips, and it’s all I can do not to drop to my knees and suck him into my mouth.

Instead I step around him, trailing a hand across his firm bicep. He works out every day, or he did when we were together. “Still playing pick-up Quidditch?” I ask and he laughs softly.

“Not so much now.”

“Pity.” I kiss his nape; he turns to look at me.

“You’re overdressed,” Al says. He slides a finger under one of the straps of my dress and draws it down over the curve of my shoulder. I stand still, watching him. His eyes are dark; his thick lashes brush against his cheeks before he looks back up at me. There’s only an inch difference in our heights, thanks to the heels I’m wearing. “We should correct that.” He hooks another finger beneath the other strap.

The dress slides down my thin body, catching for a moment on my prick. I tug it loose and let the beaded silk pool around my feet.

Al raises an eyebrow. “No pants.”

"Concealing spell." I smile faintly at him. “Didn’t want a line under my dress.”

“Kinky,” he says, and he pulls me against him, his hands moving warmly across my back as he kisses me again.

I could get lost in this, I know. His thick dark hair is soft between my fingers as I stroke it back from his face.

“Scorpius,” he says finally, gasping. His hips buck against mine. Our pricks rub together and I groan. “I want—“

“I know.” Another breathless sweep of my tongue against his swollen lip and I step back. “Turn around.”

He does, and I drag his trousers and pants down his thighs, revealing the flat planes and perfect curve of his arse. I swallow, staring at it, and I touch him, letting my fingers skid lightly across his skin, through his crease. He hisses, and his palms hit the counter as he lurches forward. I grab his arse, digging into the firm muscle, kneading gently. “You want this,” I say.

“That ought to be obvious.” He’s breathing hard.

I reach across him, riffling in the drawer next to us for the tiny phial of lube that’s always kept there, just in case. It’s wizarding-made this time, thank God, not that vile cack the Muggleborns sometimes bring in from the Duane Reade on the corner.

My fingers are slick with golden oil when I press them against Al’s arse. I rub his entrance, enjoying his gasp as I stroke the puckered skin. “One or two?” I ask. I already know the answer.

“Two.”

He’s always been a greedy slut.

My fingertips slide in slowly, and Al grunts, tensing for a moment before spreading his thighs wider. I watch him in the mirror in front of us. His eyes are closed, his mouth half-open. With a twist, I ease my fingers in more. His eyelashes flutter slightly, and his hands flex against the scarred wood of the countertop.

He’s hot and tight and I’m desperate to shove my prick in him. Instead I content myself—for now, at least—with rubbing it against the back of his thigh, letting the head slide through to press against his balls. Al’s hand jerks, and he knocks over a jar of makeup brushes. They roll across the counter, falling to the floor with a clatter.

Al rides my fingers, his hips splayed, his arse pressing back eagerly against my hand, and I can’t tear my gaze from the reflection of his face in the mirror. I twist my fingers roughly, stretching him, and he groans and shifts beneath me. “Scorpius,” he says again, his voice rising before he catches himself and bites down hard on his lip.

I can’t wait any longer. I slide my hand away and grab his hips, pushing the blunt head of my prick against his arse. He arches beneath me, crying out as I press into him. I know he’s not entirely ready, and I force myself to slow down. I can feel him tremble against me.

He’s breathing hard, his shoulders tight and rounded, his head dropped down. “Fuck,” he says, but when I start to pull back he looks up, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “Don’t.”

I still. “Are you all right?”

Al laughs. “Yeah. Just give me a minute.”

We’re silent, the only sound in the room Al’s ragged breaths. I lean forward and press my mouth against one shoulder blade. He shivers, and I drag my mouth down his spine, sucking lightly on the knobbly skin. He tastes salty and faintly sour.

He moves then, rocking slowly back against me. “Please,” he says, and there’s a catch in his voice.

I press back into him, working deeper, then burying myself to my balls in his arse. My fingernails dig into his hips. It’s all I can do not to slam into him. Instead I move slowly, holding my breath with each careful thrust. Al groans and writhes back against my thighs.

“More,” he barks, watching my reflection. His fringe sticks to his damp forehead. “I want to be fucked, for Christ’s sake, Scorpius.”

“Still a demanding little bitch, are you?” I ask with a laugh. My hips press against his; my hands slide over his slick, hot skin, pressing him down against the counter.

I fuck him in quick, short thrusts, gasping as he moves against me, his arse rocking back against my hips. My fingernails drag across his back, leaving behind long, red-pink marks that I’ve no intention of healing. I want him to feel me tomorrow. Everywhere. In his arse, on his skin. The thought nearly takes my breath away as I bend over him, sucking and biting the nape of his neck, his dark, sweaty hair against my lips.

Al cries out as his cock slaps against the countertop. His cheeks are flushed with deep pink

“You like that,” I say, and he nods, stretching his neck so my teeth can graze the skin beneath his ear. I grab his prick, wrapping my fingers tight around it, and I pull him back so he’s nearly upright, both of us watching as each slam of my hips against his arse shoves his cock through my fist, the head red and slick.

“ _More_ ,” Al chokes out, and he reaches back to grab my hips. His fingernails scrape my hipbone, and the sharp flare of pain makes me slam into him harder, twisting my palm over his prick until his body jerks and he tenses against me. “Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Scorpius.” he says, and with one last rough tug of his cock, spunk splatters across the mirror, dripping thick and white.

“Well, _really_.” The mirror clucks, outraged, and Al lurches forward, catching himself on the countertop as he gasps for breath.

I kiss the side of Al’s neck. “Bukkake,” I whisper, “of sorts.” I pull out from his arse, reaching down to grab my cock as I rut it between his arsecheeks. I want to come on him. I’m desperate to. “Turn around.”

Al twists against me, and I push him to his knees. He looks up at me, his hands sliding up my thighs as he watches me wank myself. My slick fingers slip up my shaft, tugging and smoothing, pulling my foreskin over my swollen head and pinching it until I’m breathless and tense.

“I’m—“ I groan and jerk harder, pressing my prick against Al’s cheek. “Oh, fuck.”

Al’s thumbs are just beneath my balls, rubbing circles across my tight skin. When he leans forward and drags his tongue across my sac, sucking one ball into his mouth, I can’t hold back. I pull back and come with a sharp cry, my body shaking, and it’s only Al catching me that keeps me on my feet.

My spunk slides down his cheek. He touches it, his fingers sliding through the slick mess, and then he puts them in his mouth, sucking them clean. I shudder, my hands pressing into his shoulders. “Merlin.”

He pulls me down next to him. We sprawl together on the grimy floor, legs entwined, his jacket and shirt being crushed beneath our hips. I grab my dress and use it to wipe his cheek clean. Sod Idgie. She’s not getting this one back.

Al kisses me, a slow careful press of lips as he rolls me on my back and drapes himself over me. He grins. “Not bad.”

“Passable, yes.” I trace the curve of his jaw.

“I hope not.” Al smoothes my hair back from my face. “Is your godmother going to kill me if I hang around again?”

His shoulders are fantastically warm and smooth beneath my palms. “Probably not. Idgie might.”

“I can handle her.” Al smiles faintly, then leans his forehead against mine. “Have any plans for October?”

I shift, peering to look at him properly. “Why?”

He shrugs, but his eyes are warm. “I need a date for my sister’s wedding.” He pushes himself up on his elbows. I try not to notice the way his muscles move beneath his skin.

“A date.”

Al nods and grins again. “And all that entails.”

“Your father’ll find out—“

“That’s the point, idiot.”

“Well. In that case,” I say as I slide my arms around his neck, “I might even wear a suit.”

“Pity,” Al says. He runs a hand down my leg, pulling it up. My high heel dangles from my toes. It swings for a moment, then falls to the floor with a soft thud when I flex my foot. “I rather like you in these.”

“Pervert.”

He shifts between my legs. I can feel his cock start to firm. “Is that such a horrible thing, really?”

I laugh and pull him into another kiss.

"No. Not in my book."

I'm glad he's back.


End file.
